


The Girl Who Cried Lucifer

by VioletClementines



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Asylum, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Multi, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wool's Orphanage, Young Tom Riddle, cave by the sea, what happened in the cave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:59:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletClementines/pseuds/VioletClementines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy Benson is silent about what happened in the cave--until she isn't. She accuses Tom Riddle of being Lucifer reincarnate. Amy is sent to the London Insane Asylum for Young Girls. Tom Riddle haunts her past. Lord Voldemort terrorizes her future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl Who Cried Lucifer

**Author's Note:**

> Story dedicated to me. You have to remember to write for yourself before anyone else.

**I**

             The children frolicked about in the yard below, free of anxiety. The mood in Mrs. Cole’s office was not so pleasantly naïve.

            “You cannot—I won’t allow it.”

            Mrs. Cole did not speak for a long moment, inclining her head an incremental degree. The woman wore deep lines upon her face.

            “Martha, I beg your pardon, but it is not your name that this desk bares, now is it?”

             Martha cast a glance out the window. Amy Benson would not be visible among the wind-whipped faces playing tag and hopscotch. She tore her gaze away and moved closer to Mrs. Cole, uncrossing her long arms and firmly planting her palms on the worn oak desk.

            “You know as well as I,” Martha paused. Mrs. Cole would not meet her eyes. “Amy should not be punished for this, this _ailment_ , which she is stricken with.”

            Mrs. Cole’s authoritative composition faded in the face of such uncharacteristic confrontation from the normally reserved maiden. A frown replaced pursed lips.

            “Martha dear, it is not a punishment. She will receive help—from professionals.”

            “Don’t give me that dumb line.”

             Again, Mrs. Cole blinked and turned her head to the side, hardly offended, though very taken aback.

            “Those lunatic hospitals are no place for rehabilitation, for healing.” Martha drew her nails across the wood. “A filth ridden prison, that’s what you’ll be sending her to. It’s the boy,”

             Martha had taken a step back, folding into herself. She was pleading now, soft features stricken with grief.

             “There must be something else, some other option.”

             Mrs. Cole shook her head.

            “I’m sorry. Oh heavens, I’m sorry.” Out of site, the old woman’s hands began to shake in her lap, a lace handkerchief clutched tight, abused and wrinkled.

            “The boy, he’s seen doctors—so many doctors. No one from the outside understands. He’s too clever, too convincing. And the children, the children will be silent. They’re always silent.

             “The neighbors overheard. They don’t think it’s a fit place for children to live, with a hysterical girl sleeping next to them. You know how people are. They say that insanity is contagious, that she would be a bad influence.”

             Mrs. Cole hiccuped, bowing her head to rest on her fist. Tears ran down her cheeks.

            “It can’t be helped. Now that we’ve been reported, the bureau will shut us down. Martha, please do not think less of me.”

            Understanding dawned on the maiden. It must have been an awful burden, making that decision. If Amy was not sent away, the other children would lose their only home. The air in Mrs. Cole’s office was dry, harsh on the lungs. It was a moment before Martha spoke again.

            “I’ll make some tea.”

**II**

            “Do you know why you are here, Amy?”

            “Yes.”

            Her voice was faint, similar to the sound of a page in an old book being turned. She had not spoken above a murmur since that dreadful trip to the seashore. Well, if you don’t count the fit, that is. She did not make eye contact with the man, picking at the frayed hem of her skirt as he questioned her and scribbled notes on a clipboard. She wanted to see Miss Martha. On the ride to the London Insane Asylum for Young Girls, Miss Martha had sat with Amy in the back seat, reassuring her every ten or so minutes that she was “safe now.”

            “You are here Amy because Mrs. Cole, the woman who has looked after  you all these years when your birth parents could not, believes that your psyche has become so diluted that she is no longer qualified to take proper care of you.”

             Amy looked up at him through thick black lashes. She had not been crying; her eyes were bloodshot from countless nights of lost sleep.

             “In short, you have displayed symptoms of being _deeply_ mentally disturbed.”

             “You like to hear yourself talk.”

             “Pardon?”

            The man’s fat mouth contorted into a frown. Amy went back to picking at her skirt and staring into her lap.

             Amy was given a room on the first floor of the hospital, near the kitchen where she was stationed during the day, baking bread rolls for their dinners. She was not fond of the head cook, a hardened girl of nineteen who had been at the institution since she was ten, when she had threatened to skin her uncle if he touched her again. The oppressive atmosphere of the hospital had turned her into a broken record, greeting the kitchen workers with the same proverb every morning--

             “The idle mind is the devil’s playground.”

             The repetitive act of kneading the dough, placing it aside so that it could rise, then beginning the process again kept her hands busy, but did little for Amy’s mind.  She knew the devil, and he cared not how late you slept or the number of chores that had been completed before nightfall. Amy gathered that many of the other girls felt similarly as they silently labored over chopping boards, steaming pots, and wash basins with pursed lips and vacant eyes.

             Since her arrival, Amy had heard dozens of stories from girls who had been placed into the asylum against their will because their fathers had grown impatient with their disobedience. One individual by the name of Isabelle confided that she had been brought to the hospital after she had refused to marry her fiancé. A doctor had come to her home on the man’s call, and she was diagnosed with hysteria, a mental illness that causes women to act out in pursuit of attention. Isabelle had already been seeing a psychiatrist for the treatment of homosexual tendencies, and her protest of the marriage had been the final stone in the bucket.

             Isabelle read late into the night, and Amy found comfort in the spoken words. The older girl’s voice kept the shadows at bay. It was selfish, but Amy was grateful that Isabelle had been diagnosed with hysteria and homosexuality—grateful that she had been brought to the asylum.

             Despite their best efforts Amy had not uttered a word to any of the psychologists that worked for London Insane Asylum for Young Girls. The head of hospital, the walrus Benedict Crouch, would not leave her be. Crouch had asked a close friend, a handsome man in his early thirties, to see if he could make any progress with “the stubborn brat.” 

             Dr. Francis Hobbes or “Just Francis, please” had a harmless smile and a tuft of curls that he brushed aside quite often during their sessions. He would clear his throat and cross his legs before uncrossing them and leaning forward in his arm chair to offer Amy a Turkish delight. He never tried to force Amy to talk, and never got too close to her or raised his voice. For the first time Amy felt like one of the professionals genuinely wanted to help. She was not the specimen of an experiment during her sessions with Francis. She was Amy, the person.

             Francis always brought along a bag containing various art supplies—paints, crayons, pencils, brushes, and a sketchbook. During their first meeting, Francis conversed with Amy as he would have a peer, asking her favorite color and what she liked to do for fun, all while she worked in the sketchbook. By the end of the hour, she had recreated the landscape visible from her room window; the tall pines were drawn in hard-pressed strokes with wax crayon, dark green needles fading into blue shadows. Amy’s request for an afternoon stroll through the thicket had been turned down numerous times by the staff.

**III**

             “Now, the nurses tell me you don’t sleep well. Is that right, Amy?”

             “What else have they told you?”

             Francis never asked her to speak up. He turned his head to the side.

             “Only their concern that you are not getting adequate sleep.”

             Amy did not believe him; he could sense this, had anticipated it even.

             “Amy, I honor a very strict policy. Your version of the story is the only version which is of any importance to me. I don’t waste my time on the opinions of non-professionals. Information on the state of your body is all I ask of the nurses. The state of your mind—now that’s for me and you to discuss. Just between the two of us, not everyone in this hospital ought to be. People with wholesome but misunderstood minds are misdiagnosed every day.” Francis offered a kind smile, knowing that last bit would win her over.

             “They’re telling the truth.”

             “Would you like to tell me what you’re losing sleep over?”

             This time, Amy was silent. The corner of the sketchbook was poking out of Francis’ briefcase. His eyes followed hers.

             “Would you like to draw it for me?”

             At the age of eleven, Amy was an exceptionally skilled artist. The drawing which she had produced within the next hour was a detailed sketch of a young boy with a divinely sculpted face and dark hair, neatly combed in place. There were sinister shadows beneath his eyes, and his supple lips were turned up in a wicked smirk. Dark, swirling coal smudges rose around him. He couldn’t have been much older than Amy herself, but Francis had never known a child so terrifying, not even the few genuine psychotics he had encountered in his field of work. It was unnatural. Several times while working on the sketch, Amy had grimaced and involuntarily tensed, as if she could not bear to look at her own creation.  She quickly tore the page from the book upon finishing, not wanting it to contaminate the other pages and the art they bore. Once she had handed the piece to Francis, Amy moved her chair a considerable distance away from her original spot, averting her gaze.

             Francis observed this nervous behavior, biting his lower lip in concentration. Then he focused his attention on Amy’s drawing. Impressed though he was, Francis was intelligent enough to know that now was not an appropriate moment to vocally praise her talent.

             “This is the boy, then—Tom Riddle?”

             Amy’s pupils swallowed her irises.

             “You said…”

             “That the hospital staff had only mentioned your lack of sleep, yes, I know. White lies,” Francis shrugged, as if it were nothing at all.

             Amy only nodded. She would not say the name.


End file.
